


The Play's The Thing

by Geenee27



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-21
Updated: 2018-04-21
Packaged: 2019-04-26 01:22:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14391231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Geenee27/pseuds/Geenee27
Summary: Phryne loves it when her Inspector performs. (Not that, get your minds out of the gutter)





	The Play's The Thing

**Author's Note:**

> My prompts were man bun, sandlewood and Melbourne modern AU
> 
> Hugh thank you to my travelling buddy @solitarycyclist for being my beta.

The Honourable Miss Phryne Fisher reclines on her very comfortable love seat, legs curled beneath her and a pile of file folders carelessly spread on the floor directly below. She nibbles on one of Mr. Butler's special Anzac biscuits while playing idly with a lock of her hair. The papers and notes contained in her lap caused her to frown occasionally as she pours over the latest case she is working on as a private investigator consultant.

 

It is a beautiful day in Melbourne, not too warm but sunny, so perfect a day that she has the windows opened wide in the parlour and the subtle salty breeze fills her lungs and brushes against her neck, beckoning her to venture outside. But she steadfastly ignores the siren call, and loath that she is to ever remain out of the field for a extended period of time, she really needs to finish her notes before she can think of play.

 

The house is eerily quiet for a change, Mr. B has gone to visit his sister in Bendigo and Jane is off to the university library to hunt up copies of her readings required for the week in her Woman's Studies course. The only sound is a light jazz number emitting from the iPhone dock, accompanied by the deep, earth tones of Nancy Wilson, one of her favourite singers from the 1950s era.

 

Her peaceful, calm afternoon is spectacularly disrupted by a clattering and the sound of metal scrapping against cement outside in the driveway. The sound continues around the side of the house to the back garden where it summarily ceases with a resounding thump and a gentle curse. She smiles quietly to herself, reaches over to grasp her teacup, and keeps her head and eyes lowered to the tale of misappropriated identity and theft.

 

The source of said noise eventually makes it's presence known in the front hall. She looks up and tries to school her face at the sight of her partner standing before her in cycling gear and bare feet. The sun has kissed his skin to a lovely light tan, albeit covered in places with bicycle grease and his long wavy hair is a golden brown, messily tied up in a 'man bun' at the nape of his neck. He stands staring at her, hands on hips, daring her to utter one single word.

 

She considers letting it go for a moment, realizes she can't help herself in the end, looks up and smiles with both eyes and lips, perhaps a little too merrily.

 

“How was you ride, dear?”

 

His large right hand goes up as if to stay her.

 

“Don't, just don't. I'm not in the mood.”

 

“Don't what” she blinks.

 

He glares at her and looks down at his dishevelled state, sweat is glistening on his skin, there is dirt and grease everywhere, especially on his legs, where there appears to also be a lovely road rash bruise on his left thigh.

 

“Bloody bike chain, I just fixed it.” he grouches and strips the elastic from his hair so that his long locks flow free almost to his shoulders. He impatiently swipes it out of his eyes. In spite of preferring his neat shorter hair style and three piece suits, there is something very .... er .... stimulating about this new look of his.

 

“Your hair is getting pretty long, in fact I don't think I've ever seen it so long, even when you went undercover with the drug cartel.”

 

“Yes, well it is necessary for the part, isn't it .... DEAR.”

 

“Part, what part?” she looks confused.

 

“Don't look so innocent. The part you 'volunteered' me for at the next Fireman and Policeman's Ball fundraising gala.” He was giving her that look again, the one where his head was dipped and he glared up at her in exasperation.

 

“Oh, .... right.” She feigned forgetfulness and he feigned credibility. “Well it is for a good cause and you are just perfect for the role.”

 

The only reply for that was a harrumph and he headed up the staircase to find the shower. She shook her head gently back and forth and smirked as she went back to the case file before her and listened to the sounds of him moving around upstairs, divesting himself of cycling togs. It was not, quite frankly, doing anything for her powers of concentration as she thought of him peeling off the damp Lycra but she had work to do so she tried her best to ignore it.

 

Her breaking point came when the heady scent of sandalwood shampoo drifted down the stairs to assault her senses and she realized perhaps he might need some help washing his back and that lovely head of hair.

 

Phryne quickly threw the file to the floor and climbed the stairs two at a time. As she reached the en-suite door she could hear the low, deliciously vibrating baritone of her dour Detective Inspector booming from the shower.

 

 

_'I'm very good at integral and differential calculus;_ __  
_I know the scientific names of beings animalculous:_  
_In short, in matters vegetable, animal, and mineral,_  
_I am the very model of a modern Major-General.'_


End file.
